She gladly plumbed an estimate of what she'd sized him up to favoring as far as books, or at least the common theme she saw, and knew to provide a thing a tad different. Who dwelling in their amended mind, where all hide away the secret apparatus of longing, would not be stirred by the relentlessly poetic words, of the over-burdened, yearning Charles Baudelaire in the Fleurs du mal? They excavate the caverns of the heart! Describe the castellated relics of the lonely mind; the scavenged gems of hatred, devotion, and lunacy.
Perhaps, he'd not be so inclined to take a liking to all that in artful word without much historical delve, but hey, trading was fun. She followed him to the door dependably. And when at the crack of its opening, she announced: "I'll be back later with your book then. It was nice spending time with you." She spoke earnestly, though the dimming influence of the thought of how they met shined unsteadily.
Without much forethought, it seemed natural to burst the bubble of their distance with affection, and wrap one of her arms, the other apprehended by the book, about his neck for a fond and tight embrace.